


Wisteria

by lustfulpasiphae (miraphora)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 02:40:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6497596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraphora/pseuds/lustfulpasiphae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:</p><p>"I see you've decorated."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wisteria

“I see you’ve decorated.”

Cullen doesn’t gratify the mage’s droll comment with a response–doesn’t even turn around. He knows what he’ll see on Dorian’s face. Sleek disdain. Wry humor. Scathing judgment. Those pewter eyes fixed on the pile of rubble in the corner and the vines creeping down and slowly destroying the crumbling mortar of the walls. 

There’s a new collection of silvery green tendrils dangling in through the jagged hole in the roof. They appeared after the last cold snap, lengthening slowly, unfurling cautiously. In the last few weeks they’ve sprouted clusters of buds, pale violet, lavender, darkening to the rich gentian tones of grapes. That’s what they look like. Clusters of grapes. 

He’ll probably leave them, even though the bees have already made investigatory forays. 

He focuses on removing his armor, leaving Dorian to decide on his own comfort. Giving the mage a chance to change his mind–to leave–to slip away with a blithe comment the way he does at the end of their chess games.

He doesn’t see the way Dorian stands, hands braced on his hips, head tilted back, eyes glinting from stray sparks of light that caress the sepia angles of his face. Doesn’t see the way Dorian stares, transfixed, at the tender, fragrant blossoms, the palest petals glowing with translucence in the afternoon sunlight. Doesn’t see the way Dorian transfers that gaze to the tender nape of his neck, where his blond curls have escaped the sleek taming of oils and wax, the way the other man’s mouth twists, vulnerably, beneath the inadequate concealment of his mustache.  

All he knows is that later, the mage is twined around him, warm brown limbs wrapped around pale golden torso like wisteria vines around an old dead stump, giving new life and beauty to what’s broken.


End file.
